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I 






nuiHinnimtmmntn/^ 


The Bush Aflame 


BY 


DANA W. BARTLETT / 

AUTHOR OF 

“The Better City’' 

“The Better Country” 


Y ILLUSTRATED BY 

DANA BARTLETT 

11 

President California Art Club 
California JVdter Color Society 


“Great men are they who see that 
spiritual is stronger than any ma¬ 
terial force; that thoughts rule the 
world” 

—Emerson. 


Press of 

Grafton Publishing Corporation 
Los Angeles, California 



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TS35 03 

.Ala. 3.5 "B-l 

19^3 


Copyright, 1923 

. by 

Dana W. Bartlett, Author 
and 

Dana Bartlett, 

All rights reserved. 


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OCT 10 33 4 

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Lo those who are seeking health, 
happiness and spiritual power in 
God’s out-of‘doors, this book is 
lovingly inscribed . 



































































































































































































































mmnmnmfflngingD 



Preface 




HIS book concerns itself with the “Near-at- 
hand.” I am living in the mountains, above the 
big city,—a simple life,—close to nature. I have 
as companions, wild flowers and fruiting trees; birds, bees 
and butterflies; clouds and fog; wondrous twilight of 
morning and evening; the far stretch of ocean with its 
ever changing color, and at night the overarching, star- 
filled sky. 

The pleasures of the “here and now” are healthful and 
satisfying. I have found answer to difficult questions that 
troubled me in the big city. My hope and faith have been 
rekindled and I have strong courage to face the future. 

My artist collaborator and myself are moved by the 
same desire, to send forth a message of cheer and good 
will, and to help create a longing for the higher artistic 
and spiritual values without which a man or a city can¬ 
not be rated rich. 

Your “Near-at-hand” may not be “here,” but “there.” 
Wherever it lies, on the mountain, in the valley or the 
plain, may you discover holy ground, where, from the 
bush aflame you may hear the voice calling you to high 
purpose and noble adventure. 

Dana W. Bartlett. 

Los A ngeles , 1923. , 




[3 m 'iiiHMililiijlllllllllllinMMIMIl 









































mmnnmmmminmmini 


Qontents 


Page 

A Mine of Diamonds. 19 

Traveling on the Sky Line. 49 

A Night in the Open . 75 

Orchard Blossoms. 93 

Friends in Feather Dress. 119 

Voices of the Air . 137 

Mountain Visions for Valley Service. 155 











































































fist of Illustrations 


California (Oil) . 

. . Frontispiece 

Hills of California (Oil) . 

. 17 

The Sierras (Charcoal) . 

. 47 

Prehistoric Brea Pits ( Charcoal)... 

. 61 

The Grand Canyon ( Charcoal).... 

. 73 

Giant Sycamores ( Charcoal) . 

. 91 

Springtime (Pen) . 

. 99 

Orchard Blossoms (Pen) . 

. 105 

California Landscape (Charcoal) .. 

. 117 

In Poetic Mood (Monotype) — ... 

. 135 

Lake of Enchantment (Oil) . 

. 153 


WITH NUMEROUS DECORATIONS 

















































































From an oil painting in the 
Taylor Collection, New York 















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Foreword 


EaRTH’S crammed with heaven, 

And every common bush afire with God; 
But only he who sees, takes off his shoes.” 



I 


T HIS big city by the western sea is building for to¬ 
morrow. Each year its boundaries stretch farther 
afield, to include the farm and the farmer, the moun¬ 
tain and the mountaineer, the seashore and the fisher¬ 
man. The countryside and the city have joined hands. 
Some day the population will be counted in millions. 
If then it is a better city than today it will be because 
the people have had the vision of a community made 
livable, where sunshine drives out shadow, where 
beauty has an appeal in nature and art, where all houses 
may be built in gardens and urban advantages found 
even in mountain homes. A place where leisure time 
robs the work-a-day world of its hardships, where life 
more abundant is wooed and won by those who might 
have been the bond-slaves to the “ugly god Mammon.” 

The boosters and boasters foretell the day when 
from the mountain of the Arrowhead to the wave- 
beaten shore there will be one continuous city. God 
forbid, that it be like the city of yesterday. This val¬ 
ley is the natural home for flowers and fruits, singing 
birds and humming bees. Here should be assembled 
all those things that make life the more worth living. 
Here the amenities should be given the major place 
in the plan for a greater metropolis. 

It is time to think deeply of the spiritual and cul¬ 
tural side of city life. Great factories are now build- 


24 


The Bush Aflame 


ing in barley fields. Through the new immigrant 
station, workers will come from many lands, and soon 
this new industrial community will present problems 
difficult of solution. Lest our hearts be hardened by 
the possession of things, and the spiritual vision be lost 
in the greed for gain, we must give attention to the 
building of the ideal upon the foundations of the real. 
There is a city of God in the clouds of heaven, 
which will descend upon us, if we will, as silently 
\ as the falling dew. 

feg Since the disillusionment of the great war, 

T 4 values are being measured by new stand- 
■'TflSn* arc * s * The mar k> the franc and even the 
dollar have lost their former buying power. 
Cities built on firm foundations were shell- 
beaten into dust. In a single night, Chicago and San 
Francisco were destroyed by fire, but the real city re¬ 
mained in the hearts of the citizens, and because of it 
new and better ones arose from the ashes. We may find 
after all that the intangible is the real. 

In this particular town the word real is almost 
synonymous with real-estate. A thousand agents tell us 
that real estate is the foundation of all wealth. “It is 
the one investment that is secured by first title to some¬ 
thing real and tangible under the sun.” Yet a man may 
own land and be poor. The unearned increment may 
bring wealth but not happiness. Goldsmith wrote well 
these words: 

“Ill fares the land to hastening ills a prey, 
“Where wealth accumulates and men decay.” 


A Mine of Diamonds 


25 


Emerson saw the danger of mere possessions,— 
“Things are in the saddle and ride mankind.” Ideals 
are spiritual realities. Perfect memories are precious 
spiritual possessions which even death cannot take away. 

Man does not live by bread alone. The market sells 
not the meat that nourishes the spirit. One does not 
buy soul food over the counter. We may place our 
gems and title deeds under a lock, but that will not 
help to make a sweeter soul or happier spirit. There 
is something better than gold. 

“Better than grandeur, better than gold, 

Than rank and titles a thousand fold, 

Is a healthy body, a mind at ease, 

And simple pleasures that always please. 

A heart that can feel for another’s woe, 

And share his joys with a genial glow, 

With sympathies large enough to enfold 
All men as brothers, is better than gold.” 

Gold never buys surcease of care. Appreciation of 
the beautiful and love of good literature are not pur¬ 
chased on Broadway. In the search for treasure, the 
pearl of great price may be lost in the mire. 

We do not really possess things. The atmosphere 
of home, the beauty of color and perspective in a paint¬ 
ing, the chaste symmetry of a statue, the harmony in the 
symphony, the loves of life, the sweet memories of by¬ 
gone days, these are prized possession 4 - Urt * 


The material, tangible things do 
not abide; only the invisible is eternal, 


enrich the owner. 





26 


The Bush Aflame 


—immortal. There is a spiritual world albeit there are 
those who are not aware of its existence. 

Rabindranath Tagore wrote concerning his visit to 
this country: “For seven months at a stretch I have 
lived in the giant’s castle of wealth, America. Through 
my hotel window sky-scrapers frowned on me. They 
only made me think of the difference between Lakshmi, 
the Goddess of Grace, who transmutes wealth into well¬ 
being, and the ugly god Mammon, who represents the 
spirit of insensate accumulation. . . . Greed is not 

an ideal; it is a passion. Passion cannot create. So 
when any civilization gives the first place to greed, the 
soul relation between man and man is severed; and the 
more luxurious such a civilization grows in pomp and 
power, the poorer it becomes in truth of Soul.” 

During many years, it was my privilege to live and 
serve in the less desirable parts of several cities. I saw 
the evil side of American municipal life, its sin and 
shame, its crime and disease. My nerves were shattered 
with the noise. The odors of 
the packing house and the 
gas works, the stench from 
unpaved streets, were ex¬ 
tremely offensive. Corrupt 
ward politics and the evil 
power of big business made 
it possible in those days for 
the arch corrupters of hu¬ 
man life, the saloon, brothel 
and gambling den, to domi¬ 
nate the political life, and 











A Mine of Diamonds 


27 


almost crush the forces that were struggling for better 
conditions. I did not become a pessimist, for always 
before me was the vision of a better city. I was a seeker 
after the good, and I always found it. I found sure 
reason for hope as I discovered real home life in hum¬ 
ble quarters; the love and faithful training of children 
in the midst of poverty; the sacrifice of all comforts 
that the children of the family might secure an educa¬ 
tion and a better start in life. I found it in the schools 
where faithful and efficient teachers were implanting 
ideals of better living and nobler service. I found it 
in the movements for reform, where men and women 
were giving themselves unselfishly to a great ideal. I 
found it in the social settlements, where education and 
culture made common cause with neighborhood prob¬ 
lems. I found it in the missions where the Christ 
spirit was winning the hearts of degraded 
men. I found it among the workers 
who were giving time and money 
in order to win a larger and bet¬ 
ter life for all. I am an opti¬ 
mist, for I have seen altruism 
and Christian love winning their 
way against all enemies. 

I have lived close by thou¬ 
sands of men. I have known 
many of them intimately. It has 
been my lot to carry the burdens 
of those who were in need of a 
friend. Good and bad alike, we 
have all missed the mark. Some 







28 


The Bush Aflame 


who started with high purpose have sadly failed; yet 
who dares lose heart? We look back and count the 
years and know that there has been progress. We are 
impatient for change, but God is patient. The ideal 
moves slowly toward realization; but move it must, for 
there is a mighty urge in God’s great Universe that 
cannot be resisted. 

Sometimes I think I have never been a preacher, 
except for a few short years while I was unlearning 
what I had been taught in the schools. I have simply 
tried to live and love and serve, and thus I found the 
way to truth and light. 

From love of humans who live in man-built cities, 
I have come to love the God-made world just beyond 
the city wall. Out there we now have our home on the 
mountain side within sight of the big city, yet far 
enough removed so that the noise and clatter form a 
murmur, full of music, like the sound of distant waves 
beating on a rocky shore. 

In our little mountain home I was stricken with 
influenza, and in delirium I discovered a diamond mine 
in my hillside. I reveled in the pleasure of giving great 
gifts to causes near to my heart. When health returned 
I found that I had a mine from which could come 
priceless gems, though I had no mine of diamonds like 
those of Kimberley. You also may become the proud 
possessor of priceless treasures. This little book of per¬ 
sonal experience may help to cut the trail that leads to 
your diamond mine. 

As a city dweller I spent a quarter of a century on 
an acre of ground, with a thousand neighbors on the 


A Mine of Diamonds 


29 


same acre, each helping to shut out God’s sunlight 
from all the others. Do you wonder why I call my lit¬ 
tle three-acre ranch on the mountain side a mine of 
diamonds? 

In the city, in the midst of things,—beautiful things, 
costly things, wonderful things,—it is hard to recognize 
a soul. I took the open road to a mountain top where I 
saw the rolling hills give way to a fertile valley, the sea 
beyond with islands in the distance, and the western 
sun coloring the clouds of the closing day. I felt that 
I had found something more than things, more than 
gems or gold,—I had found a soul. 

As I repeat my credo, I find myself saying: I believe 
in life, life not affected by things, but self-expressive, 
sacrificial,—incarnating God. I believe in life that 
finds spiritual blessings in art and music, and love and 
laughter. There are sunlit areas, where every human 
soul does sometime enter. I believe in fellow¬ 
ship in suffering, companionship in difficult 
undertakings, in bearing burdens too heavy 
for weaker shoulders, in loving even the 
unlovely as spiritual brothers, in helping a « 

sin-stained soul to the fount of cleansing. V* 

You may not accept this creed of 
mine, I do not ask it of you. As you 
journey on your highway to God, my 
hope is that you may not lose yourself 
on some by-path and fail to find the 
Highest. 

In the Recorder’s office in the Hall 
of Records there is a big book 








30 


The Bush Aflame 


which is written down that I own three acres in a cer¬ 
tain mountain tract, and they have drawn a map show¬ 
ing the boundaries running in irregular lines up the 
hill side. But this does not prove that this little plot 
of ground is mine and mine alone. I know that there 
is here a social value which I cannot call mine. It be¬ 
longs to others. I plant an orchard, and the beauty 
and odor of the spring blossoms are as free as air to 
all who pass this way. In the fall the horseback riders 
from the big hotel in the valley cry out in delight when 
they see the Jonathan apples, tree-full of brilliant red, 
or the orange trees laden with gold, or the persimmon 
trees without leaf, yet full of fruit orange-red and lus¬ 
cious. I am a philanthropist. I am dividing with 
others my wealth of perfume and color. My neighbor, 
the attorney, has planted a wonderful orchard close up 
to the arroyo which divides our land. He has added 
as much to the value of my place as he has to his own, 
for he has made my back yard as beautiful as my front 
yard, and I do not envy him his title deed. He who 
plants a tree or sows the seeds of flowers or of grain, 
adds something to the common wealth. 

I have rich neighbors in the little city at the foot of 
the canyon. They have spent small fortunes in gath¬ 
ering rare trees and plants from the ends of the earth. 
They might not know that they were spending money 
to make my life richer, but that is true. I do not enter 
their gates, but that which I see is mine for the joy of 
the present and to be stored in memory, like bottled 
sunshine for dark days. The beauty of line in archi¬ 
tecture, the well ordered plantings, the exquisite color- 


A Mine of Diamonds 


31 


ings, the glorious beds of Holland bulbs,—with this 
vision of loveliness I am happier, and the owners are 
richer because of the gift, though they know not of my 
taking. 

If you have only a small bit of land on the moun¬ 
tain side, you also have wealth, for you have vantage 
ground for broad thinking and lasting joy. The sky 
overhead is yours with its shining lights and moving 
worlds. The big dipper pointing to the north star,— 
that is yours. The constellations watched nightly are 
visiting friends. 

My neighbor across the arroyo, the attorney who 
planted the orchard, is a leading advocate in the big 
city over yonder. He pleads in the highest courts and 
settles controversies involving millions of dollars. Yes¬ 
terday, I saw him bareheaded, hoeing weeds from the 


border of his orchard. In a cheery 
tone he called, “Good afternoon, neigh¬ 
bor,” and I knew that he was en¬ 
joying his “adven¬ 
tures in content- 


W/^W)lll/««lf({(llJ' “ tn) 

a 


CZ2 
















32 


The Bush Aflame 


ment.” “Neighbor,”—he always calls me neighbor,— 
“I like this. When I come out here I forget all the 
troubles of the world, and just live.” 

Whittier well expresses the idea of contentment 
with the now and here: 

“That all of good the past hath had 
Remains to make our own time glad, 

Our common daily life divine, 

And every land a Palestine. 

“Henceforth my heart shall sigh no more 
For olden time and holier shore. 

God’s love and blessing, then and there, 

Are now and here and everywhere.” 

If we would learn the secret of the now and here, 
we might lay up spiritual treasure on earth as well as in 
heaven. 

Moses, as a faithful shepherd, came to the “Moun¬ 
tain of God,” and, out of a bush that burned with fire 
and yet was not consumed, God called him by name. 
That was holy ground. It was one of God’s first sanc¬ 
tuaries in which the bush was the altar, all domed by 
the overarching heavens. You and I may not hear God 
speaking as distinctly as did Moses, still he has a mes¬ 
sage for everyone who feels that it is holy ground on 
which he stands as he sees a bush aflame with its spring¬ 
time glory. 

I have learned to love the mountains; they are the 
lure of God to my soul. They draw me upward, en¬ 
large my horizon and inspire my life. The mountains 


A Mine of Diamonds 


33 


are earth’s upreaching toward the sky; they are “climb¬ 
ers toward the dawn.” 

My ranch is the starting place of the road that leads 
to everywhere, but why go forth when so much of the 
world is here. We who live in California may easily 
understand the Bible Lands. These two lands are much 
alike in climate and soil, in mountain and sea and lake. 
We may, better than others, understand why the Bible 
characters loved the open and found inspiration in 
God’s great out-of-doors. We may have their experi¬ 
ences without a tiresome journey to a far country. It 
will be good for the soul to take the Book in hand, and, 
with that as a guide, discover here in near-by land the 
duplicates of mountain and valley, of fruit, vine, flower 
and bird. Mount Nebo and Mount Moriah are only 
a day’s journey away, and an easy trail leads to the 
Mount of Transfiguration, where we may stand when 
“Glories morning gate” opens wide, and hold commun¬ 
ion with great souls. This is our Palestine. 

When you have grown tired in the 
noise and worry of the big city and 
you feel jaded, spent and nerve racked, 
it is time to associate with Mother 
Earth and feel the thrill of new red 
blood. Better still, do not wait till 
both body and spirit are broken. Seek 
at once companionship with flowers 
and birds and trees; with stars and 
dawns and sunsets. The water from 
the spring in the hillside, the odors of 
apple blossoms and citrus blooms, the 









34 


The Bush Aflame 




V 


ozone in the mountain air; these are nature’s medicine 
for body and soul. 

The call of the Open Road! Have you heard it? 

Have you felt the urge almost compelling 
you to leave the crowded city? Perhaps 
it is God’s voice calling to you from a bush 
aflame and you will miss the worth while 
if you do not obey. A journey into God’s 
open world demands careful 
thought and proper preparation if 
one is really to see the bush aflame. 
A working knowledge of science 
may be gained in a few semesters, 
but to really know and love this 
world which God has made, re¬ 
quires more than laboratory work 
or time spent in the dissecting 
room. It calls for heart values, 
rather than for intellectual 
strength; for power to visualize rather than reason;— 
the simplicity of a child, not the wisdom of the schools. 
It is a sad fact that man may travel the Open Road and 
see naught of beauty; may pause at a wayside shrine 
and experience no uplift of soul; may pass a Spanish 
Mission and not be able to recreate the scene of long 
ago. With mind intent on business or pleasure the real 
world about is invisible. I feel sorry for those who 
have eyes but see not the grandeur of God’s great Uni¬ 
verse. They see the city that man has built but not the 
world which God has created. There are those who 
are ready for the vision. Those whose eyes have been 






A Mine of Diamonds 


35 


anointed by the divine touch, form an ever increasing 
number of the elect of God, who with Shakespeare, 
“Find tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, 
sermons in stones, and good in everything.” I would 
be classed among those who have “better vision.” 
Nature has a mystic meaning for the prepared ones. 
Happiness may be nearer to us than we have dared to 
hope. 

I have found in these hills, that peace which others 
in vain have sought afar. I know that God is on this 
mountain-side, for here He has sown the seeds of wild 
flowers and hued the slopes in brilliant colors. God 
is here, for no good gardener neglects his garden. I 
am asking Him to teach me to know and love all the 
trees and flowers that grow in His garden. Surrounded 
by all this natural glory, why envy those who hold title 
deeds to vast estates? As Emerson writes: 

“For what are they all in their high conceit 
When man in the bush with God may meet?” 











36 


The Bush Aflame 


Yesterday was Easter and I worshiped God in the 
open air. In the quiet of the hillside I heard voices 
inaudible in the noisy city, as every bud and bulb and 
butterfly told me the story of its own resurrection. I 
seemed to hear a heavenly chorus singing an Easter 
Anthem, and there came to me the joy of new life and 
the hope of a better world,—spirit filled and redeemed 
from evil. The silent places of the mountains are true 
sanctuaries for the soul. They are the Holy of Holies, 
where the Shekinah glory may be revealed to the hum¬ 
blest worshiper. If you seek God there, you cannot 
fail to find Him, for He is not far away to the man 
with the open vision. 




In God's Open Country 


The Mountain 
The Canyon 
The Desert 
The Sea 





















The ^Mountain 


I.SMEATON CHASE in “Yosemite 
Trails,” tells of his experiences in the 
highlands above the beautiful valleys, 
“Mornings of heavenly freshness on the 
trail; canyons on canyons, peaks beyond 
peaks, ridges beyond ridges; sweet scents 
of balsam and pine; stormy 
sunrises and wistful sunsets; 
lakes lying blue in hidden 
hollows or trembling to sud¬ 
den silver as the wind went 
by;—quiet lyings awake at 
night, solemn glories of sun¬ 
set peaks; communions with friendly 
trees; chatterings of brooks, singings of 
creeks, and roaring of rivers; ghostly 
snow-glimmer by starlight; peaks in 
solemn ranks against the sky ” 



























































































































































































V 
























* 












































































■ 






. 

. 


















































































. 


























The Qanyon 


Concerning the Grand Canyon, “by 

far the most sublime of all earthly spec¬ 
tacles,” John Muir writes: 

“It seems like a gigantic statement for 
even Nature to make all in one mighty 
stone word. Wilderness so Godful, cos¬ 
mic, primeval, bestows a new sense of 
Earth’s beauty and size. But the colors, 
the living, rejoicing colors, chanting 
morning and evening in chorus to 
heaven! Whose brush or pencil however 
lovingly inspired, can give us these? In 
the supreme flaming glory of sunset the 
whole canyon is transfigured, as if the life 
and light of centuries of sunshine stored 
up in the rocks was now being poured 
forth as from one glorious fountain, 
flooding both earth and sky.” 



















• *+ V 























The ‘Desert 


What land can equal the desert? You 
shall never see elsewhere as here the 
dome, the pinnacle, the minaret, fretted 
with golden fire at sunrise and sunset; 
you shall never see elsewhere as here the 
sunset valleys swimming in pink and lilac 
haze; the great mesas and plateaus fading 
into blue distance; the gorges and can¬ 
yons banked full of purple shadow; never 
again shall you see such light and air and 
color; never such opaline mirage, such 
rosy dawn, such fiery twilight.” 

Van Dyke ,—"The Desert 












































































<■ 




































































































































































































* 




























































/ 
























































































































































. 













































































































































































































































The Sea 


op 

x HE sea is beneficent. The rain is dona¬ 
tive of the sea. The snows upon the 
mountain peaks are drifted hither from 
the sea. On the wide ocean caldron is 
brewed health for the world. And the 
sea hath tides. They are the pulse-beats 
of the sea. Tides are the sea-answer to 
the sky. . . . The moon beckons, and the 
sea aspires, and tides essay to climb the 
shores that thus they may climb the sky. 

. . . All service comes from the attempt to 
climb the sky ” 

Wm. A. Quayle —“The Prairie and the Sea.” 























■ 












































* 























































































































The Sierras 



































































































































1 « 
























































































































































































V 




Foreword 


Oh , the times when I grow fretful 
And of God’s great love forgetful, 
When I’m cross and glum and hateful 
And embittered and ungrateful, 

I go out of doors and stay 
Till my doubts are blown away.” 

Edgar A. Guest. 





II 


W ILL you go with me today to my skyline and sit 
for a time on the top of the world? You need the 
out of doors more than you do the medicine of the 
apothecary. Try it and you will find that the Great 
Physician has healing balm for the ills of life. Leave 
the noise and fret and worry of the big city and seek 
the shrine of silence in the hills. 

Elijah of old, answered the call of the mountain 
and there witnessed the destructive forces of Nature, 
but God was not in the strong wind, or earthquake, or 
fire. After that came a still small voice, and Elijah 
heard his own name spoken by the Most High. There 
is a spiritual sensing of the invisible and the inaudible, 
but only the pure in heart may see beyond the veil or 
hear Him speak while others hear no sound. 

Above our little ranch on the mountain side there 
is to be built a skyline road, winding in and out among 
the peaks on easy grade, some day to be a real high 
line to the ocean. Every point will be an inspirational 
point, revealing a panorama of snow-clad mountains, 
of valleys and sea and towns. No other city is divided 
into halves by a mountain range. That is what gives 
emphasis to this appeal, viz: to know this land of the 
near-at-hand. Skyline drives and skyline visions are 
here within the reach of all. Until the highway is com¬ 
pleted, take the trail on foot or on horseback. Travel 



54 


The Bush Aflame 


slowly and make frequent stops, and sit in silence until 
your soul is saturated with the sense of beauty and 
grandeur, that the lesson of the vision may be yours as 
you come down the trail. 

Some day the people who dwell in the valley will 
more fully realize the life values that are to be found 
in this mountain spur that thrusts itself athwart the 
city. It is a great, natural, God-given amenity, for the 
perpetual pleasure of all the people. At the spear head 
of the spur there is a well kept park, a real play-ground 
for those who wish to escape from the crowded city. 
Then follows a mighty park of woodland and canyon, 
without rival anywhere. In a natural amphitheater 
thousands gather for the enjoyment of music and plays. 
Hard by, in the quiet night under the stars of heaven, 
is staged the Pilgrimage play, “Life of the Christ,” and 
bearing the same spiritual message as the “Passion 
Play” in far Bavaria. Where the mountain comes 
down to the sea, a great religious body has created a 
place for homes, surrounding Chautauqua grounds, 
where the cultural and the religious activities will 
attract large numbers of those who seek for broader 
and better life. At the foot of the Palisades where the 
sand meets the sea, municipalities are seeking perpetual 
ownership, that the People may be assured of a breath¬ 
ing place for all time. 

Better even than parks, and bowls, Chautauqua 
grounds and bathing beaches, are home sites for those 
who long for freer life and inspiring surroundings. 
There is here no pioneering, for good roads lead up 
many canyons, electric and telephone wires go wher- 


Traveling on the Sky Line 


55 


ever needed, and the radio makes every home a church, 
a university or a music hall at will. Cold water, ocean 
breezes, fruits and flowqrs add to the pleasure of liv¬ 
ing on the heights. Invention may so simplify aviation 
that soon we will be able to fly as safely as the hawk, 
and so swiftly that an hour’s journey will take us far 
afield. Why not live where singing birds hold song- 
festival through the mating months of spring, and the 
chaparral is abloom in waves of color? 

It will do us all good to seek the high places and 
have the far vision. We will discover that those things 
which we thought had made us great, seem trivial as 
we see God’s plan in the large. We had been think¬ 
ing with pride of our money, our talents, our position, 
as though the end of life was acquisition and possession. 
After this view from the mountain top we will rejoice 
in that which we have only as it aids us in the service 
of the Highest. 

If duty calls elsewhere and life must still be lived 
where the hard day of toil leaves 
little leisure time, deadens thought, 
and stifles the artistic impulse, ask 





56 


The Bush Aflame 


God for the loan of a day, and, light-hearted as a child, 
hie to the mountains and seek there the source of body 
renewal and spiritual rebirth. On such a day climb 
with me to the highest peak on the skyline and know 
that here a divine craftsman has labored as artist and 
artisan, to prepare a land for the highest enjoyment and 
spiritual culture of the sons of men. 

From these lesser heights look away to the out¬ 
standing, over-topping range of the Sierra Madres, 
with peaks white haired as a mother after years of lov¬ 
ing service for her children, “Mother Mountains,”— 
well named, for she is the life-giver to scores of beauti¬ 
ful towns and fertile valleys. There flowers flourish, 
and orchards fruit,—wonderful orchards of peach and 
plum, apple and pear; those that lose their leaves after 
harvest, true to type, for they are immigrants from a 
colder clime. Best of all are the orchards of evergreen, 
always restful to the eye and a delight in blooming 
time; orange, lemon, pomelo, olive and avacado, 
bringing the tropics within sight of the snow line. A 
land of happy homes, because cloud capped mountains 
have held back the moisture for a summer’s need. 
Tourists to this land are oftimes impatient with the 
dark days of winter, when the mountains cannot be 
seen through the rain clouds, but that is the harvest 
time of the Sierras. When the storm rages and the 
pines bend and break in the fierce wind, then snow and 
ice are laid deep in canyons, waiting for the days of 
summer service. Without the cloud and the dark day 
this would be a land of desert sand. 

God was prodigal when he threw aloft the moun- 


Traveling on the Sky Line 


57 


tain ranges and made a desert out of an ocean bed. 
Travel for days across the arid stretch of shifting sand 
and ask the reason why. Stand on the summit of Mount 
Baldy and view with wonder the bewildering jumble 
of pine clad ridges, canyons and gorges, range after 
range with snow-capped peaks hidden in the clouds. 
This is an apparent waste of land, for neither fruit nor 
grain can be harvested on these heights. But God is 
not wasteful. These mountains rise to the sky that man 
may have life giving water and bread and fruit and 
raiment, happy homes and abundant life. 

Streams that water the orchards and cause the 
orange trees to bend under a weight of gold, are in the 
making on yonder snow-crowned heights. When the 
sun rises higher in the heavens and spring and summer 
join hands in love, then the great snow-banks yield 
their wealth as a precious gift to God’s children in the 
valley below. 

One who loves to seek high adventure in the 
“Mother Mountains,” sings this song: 

“I hear the mountains calling, and the name they call, 
’tis mine 

And I joy to know the time has come again, 

When the distant ranges beckon with a nod that seems 
divine, 

And the trails await the feet of climbing men.” 

It is easier now to answer the call of the mountains, 
for good roads and wide trails lead to summer camps, 
resorts, and city play-grounds. In increasing numbers 
city dwellers are taking the trail that leads to the 


58 


The Bush Aflame 


heights and they find more than recreation, for the 
mountains satisfy the soul. This is God’s country. The 
air you breathe is God’s invigorating elixir of life, dis¬ 
tilled in the great furnace of the desert, and, in passing 
seaward, is cooled in the refrigerator of the summit’s 
snows. Breathe deeply, think lovingly and largely, 
open the heart for the inflow of the Spirit, and the 
peace of God will be yours. 

The author of the Mission Play that tells again the 
story of the early missions, writes of a wonderful day 
on the mountains: 

“One time in springtime God made a perfect day, 

He woke me in the morning and hid my cares away, 

He woke me with a thrush’s song and with a linnet’s 
trills, 

And took me in His hands and set me on the hills. 

He set me on the hills, on the topmost hill of all, 

And I heard the morning winds and far sea-breakers 
call; 

I heard the winds a-singing from land and water met, 
And I live a thousand years, Oh, I never can forget.” 




Traveling on the Sky Line 


59 


Sitting here on top of the world, I have before me 
in the valley below, a page from the unwritten book of 
time,—a record reaching back farther than the mind of 
man may conceive. The foreword 
of this wonderful book is taken 
from sacred writ and reads, “In 
the beginning God created the 
heavens and the earth.” As I sit 
here I am asking questions, 
deep ones, as yet unanswered 
and perhaps unanswerable. 

What is man? What is his 
destiny, whence and whither? 

It is good to be for a while 
above the narrowness of the 
valleys and look through 
clearer light to greater dis¬ 
tance; to allow imagination to 
have full play, to see truth by 
intuition, to be a seer of visions, 
visions that may eventuate in 
mighty undertakings. On these “high hills 
of happiness and peace,” religious feelings may be 
rekindled that will exalt the spirit and change the 
selfish animal into an altruistic, Christ-like man. 

As you sit today under a live oak by the side of the 
trail, look out over the valley locked between the 
mountains ^nd the sea, and in imagination create anew 
the scenes of long ago. In those far off ages time was 
reckoned not by moons, but by eons. Time counted 
for little in the building of a world. A great cataclysm 






60 


The Bush Aflame 


might suddenly lift to the heavens a mountain range, 
but ten thousand years could be taken to smooth its rug¬ 
gedness and clothe its slopes with verdure. In the dawn 
of creation life seemed almost valueless, but there must 
have been a purpose. There are those who think that 
countless mollusks down there by the sea, lived their 
little lives, and dying in the ooze of the ocean, con¬ 
tributed their drop of oil to help fill the mighty reser¬ 
voirs, the source of light and power for a future race 
of thinking men. I know not why that reckless gift 
of life, save in some way each creature made a sacrifice 
that man might live. He who notes the sparrow when 
he falls must know the reason why, and in His own 
good time, I too, may understand. 

What do we really know of this strange near-by- 
land, we who speed by in autos or fly high in the 
clouds? This is a valley of mystery, yet, because we 
have not the key to the inner temple, we search afar 
off for the wonderful and never find it. If we only 
knew the how and the why of creation in this our val¬ 
ley, we would be able to answer many of the age old 
questions. 

This was once a land of giants. Over these hills and 
through the valleys roamed monster animals now ex¬ 
tinct,—the elephant, the mastodon, the lion, wolf, bear 
and saber-toothed tiger; the camel and the horse, each 
more powerful than any of the existing species. Living 
and dying before the age of man, we would have known 
nothing of these great creatures had it not been for the 
discovery of the fossil pits on the Rancho La Brea, out 
yonder in the valley. In those far-off times pits were 



Prehistoric Brea Pits 



























Traveling on the Sky Line 


63 


formed by “blow-outs” of gas from the oil deposit be¬ 
low, forming craters which slowly filled with oil and 
sand. Into these traps these great animals walked in 
search of water and slowly sank to their death. A host 
of carnivorous animals gathered to the feast, and they 
in turn sank into the asphalt, their bones to be preserved 
by the oil until this day. It is worth a journey to see 
these restored animals in the great museum in the big 
city. Theirs was the day of force supreme, of tooth 
and claw and massive weight. Our quiet valley must 
have been a bloody battlefield on which the last of these 
giant creatures perished before the age of man. Who 
knows but that there were giant men in those times, 
mighty hunters able to hurl the spear to the heart of a 
mastodon or set a trap for a saber-tooth? They may 
have perished to be succeeded, as were the animals, by 
a lesser race. 



64 


The Bush Aflame 


Whence came the men who peopled this land which 
I can see from our skyline? Some have said from Asia, 
but no one knows. Back through the thousands of years 
they hunted and fished, loved and killed and died. For 
them there was no golden age. Life was only one long 
struggle with their enemies—other Indians in the 
mountains and the wild beasts of the hills. The first 
white man to come to this valley of the Cahuenga found 
living in lodges, Indian tribes of Yangnas and Sibagnas, 
a crude, uncultured people. To them as to the others 
of the Gabrielinos came the missionaries of the cross, 
to teach them religion and the arts of peace. The long 
line of missions which they established tell of the heroic 
effort of these men with a holy purpose. 

Down in the north valley I can see from my vantage 
point the well worn road of the Mission Fathers, called 
( ‘the King’s Highway,” that linked together the early 
missions. I seem to see through the mist of time the 
life of another century. The slow moving cart with its 
great wooden wheels, drawn by patient oxen. A priest 
on foot and a company of soldiers on horseback; a gay 
group of well-chaperoned youth on their way to a social 
function on a distant ranch; Indians on their ponies, 
riding a day’s journey to the next mission. The way 
winds on through sage and cactus, with here and there 
a greener spot where waters flow down from the hills. 
Far up the valley I can see the pottery roofs on the ruins 
of Mission San Fernando, glowing red yet harmoniz¬ 
ing with the green of the fig, the olive and the vine 
planted by the Franciscans of that early day. I listened 
in vain for the sweet music of the bronze bells ringing 


Traveling on the Sky Line 


65 


in the Campanario. The present has forgotten the past, 
and that which should have been a monument lies in 
tragic ruin. 

The King’s Highway is still a well marked road, 
connecting the missions as of yore, but no longer are 
the travelers priests on foot, cavaliers on horseback. I 
can see from my look-out on the hills, hundreds of auto¬ 
mobiles speeding the limit along this winding way, 
while high over head, airplanes like a flock of birds 
are winging toward a distant city. We are traveling 
fast these days, faster than the Friars on foot. Are we 
outdistancing them in Christian virtues and in loving 
service? 

This morning as I came up the trail I was above 
the clouds. There were cloud islands in a great, far- 
stretching sea whose waves of mist seemed to break on 
the mountain side just below. I must not forget that 
beneath that sea lies the real city. One may not always 
live above the clouds. 

The sun is now westering and soon we will look 
through a curtained portal into the Great Day which 
is just beyond. Clouds massing on the horizon are 
touched with an unseen brush. Tones of heliotrope, 
lilac, violet, yellow, gold, scarlet and purple are 
blended by the hand of the Master Artist. I know that 
there are men who “shut their doors against the setting 
sun,” but for a man with a soul it is the time for prayer 
and praise. It is the hour for the artist, for the mystic 
and the seeker after God. Heaven seems nearer and 
God more real as we look outward into the gorgeous 
splendor of the setting sun. 


66 


The Bush Aflame 


If I tarry longer on the skyline a million lights of 
the city will break the twilight, with a glow and glim¬ 
mer like blinking fireflies, but I must hasten down the 
trail for this is to be for me a night in the open, listen¬ 
ing to the voices that tell me their message of love. 



Sequoias 


THIS land of giant trees forms “Nature’s 
Forest Masterpiece/' Many of the mil¬ 
lion Sequoias growing in the National 
Park are centuries old, the biggest and 
oldest living things on earth. Hundreds 
were great trees when Babylon was in its 
prime. Some were saplings long before 
the beginning of human history. Camp 
under the big trees and look up at the stars 
with their untold ages and think of the 
short years of a human life. If these ma¬ 
terial things persist, surely the human 
soul cannot die but must in spirit pass on 
into the eternities . 






, ' ' I 0 f 



















National Parks 


Nature’s greatest laboratories of nat- 

ural history. Wonderful playgrounds of 
a great people—where wooded wilder¬ 
ness offers adventure to the tourist who 
dares. Playgrounds with geysers and 
boiling springs, mingling their steam 
with the clouds—with lakes and rushing 
rivers and majestic waterfalls,—with can¬ 
yons whose steep slopes offer a glorious 
kaleidoscope of color, rivaling the sunset 
sky,—with areas of petrified forests ,— 
with animal sanctuaries where innumer¬ 
able wild creatures have ceased unduly to 
fear man,—with age-old trees full-grown 
when the wise men sought the Christ 
Child in Bethlehem. To those who tarry 
Nature speaks with a tender voice, health 
returns to the troubled body, and a will 
to live is the high gift of a soul revived . 




































































• * 






















. 
















































































































































































































In city building nothing is gained by 
crowding. In the great towns every man 
must have room to live, room to work, 
room to play; without that he cannot do 
a citizen’s duty. This is the first requisite 
of our new city plan, first for health, first 
for efficiency, first for pleasure, first for 
beauty. Secure this and all else becomes 
possible; grasp at all else without this, 
and failure must follow.” 

Raymond Unwin. 







The Grand Canyon 



















- 















. 























































































‘ 






































































































































Foreword 


LIE under the stars, no tent for a 
lover of mountains. Let him use 
the sky for a coverlid, and the 
stars for candles, and the fragrant 
pine fire for holy nard.” 

Wm. A. Quayle. 



Ill 


r HAVE had a perfect day on the mountain top. The 
A rose glow of the fading sunset has passed into the 
purple of the dusk, and soon the curtain of the night 
will fall and I will be ready for a new experience. 
After such a day I cannot go indoors, pull down the 
blinds and shut out the glory of 
God, for the night has its mes¬ 
sage divine, and the day-dawn 
tells of hope for a troubled 
world. 

I will not woo sleep tonight, 
for I do not wish to miss any of 
the voices or visions. I lie with 
my face towards the morning’s 
east so that the first forerunners 
of the day may find me fully 
awake for the staging of the 
pageant of the dawn. I whisper 
my evening prayer as I lie rest¬ 
ful and quiet in the gloaming. It is not a petition, for 
God has given me more than I deserve. It is a thank¬ 
ful prayer, and God will understand, for He is here 
and beyond yon bright star. 

I love the nights under the open sky. For many 
years this family spent happy weeks of summer time, 
with only live oaks and sycamores for shelter. It was 






80 


The Bush Aflame 


early to bed, that at the call of the birds we might be 
ready for morning worship. 

I pity those who have never had the experience of 
a night in the open; who never have listened to the 
chorus of God’s little creatures or the spring morning- 
song of the birds in mating time; who never have way¬ 
laid the dawn or watched the creation of 
a new day. They have lost much; above 
all they have missed the consciousness of 
the Infinite, which only comes as one goes 
out in thought along the starry paths that 
lead way beyond the finite. 

How much of the real worth of life 
our forebears missed when they closed 
their windows at night to shut out the 
“bad air.” To one who sleeps in the open 
there is a reviving of the body and a 
quickening of the spirit that tells that the 
Healer of Souls has been near. It is easy to start the 
new day aright when the cares of yesterday are lost in 
the uplift of a night’s vision. 

In centuries long gone, in a land like this, the men 
of the Bible looked up to the stars and talked with God. 
At a certain place, Jacob, with the ground for a couch 
and a stone for a pillow, with the arching, starlit skies 
above lay down to sleep. In a wondrous vision he saw 
down-reaching from the heavens a ladder with rungs 
of light like “spun gold of sunbeams,”—a stairway for 
the angels of God. And God called Jacob’s name with 
the sacred promise of His constant presence, and Jacob 
realized that this was the house of God and the gate 



A Night in the Open 


81 


of heaven. The wise men, star-searchers, seekers of the 
Christ child, were ready to follow the star to the 
manger at Bethlehem. The shepherds, men of the open 
air, devout and holy with ears atune to the heavenly 
music, rejoiced as they heard the celestial choir sing 
Gloria in Excelcis. Where the wise and holy ones of 
old found God, there may I seek and find and rejoice. 

Before I came down the trail tonight I saw a rosy 
bar of cloud touched by the glory of the western sun, 
and wished that those gates that shut out vision might 
stand ajar and give us view of a life beyond. But not 
by human eyes am I to see God in majesty arrayed, but 
with open heart and clearer sight,—in spirit I may see 
my God as I look outward into the west or upward 
toward the stars. 

I am lying here quietly as the moments slip by, 
waiting for the voice or vision. Longfellow surely had 
an experience like this, for he wrote: 

“When the hours of Day are numbered, 

And the voices of the Night 
Wake the better soul, that slumbered 
To a holy calm delight.” 

As I am early to bed I hear a church 
bell calling the faithful in the valley 
below to midweek prayer in the little 
church. As at the call of “the Ange- 
lus,” I too, bow my head and repeat my 
“Pater Noster.” How far sound trav¬ 
els at night! Distant sounds, unheard 
by day, quicken memories. 







82 


The Bush Aflame 


The night truly has its voices as well as the day. I 
do not try to name the members of this night chorus. 
I simply know that myriads of insects are singing and 
harping a mighty anthem which has been repeated 
nightly, since life on earth began. There is an under¬ 
tone of wave-like rhythm which lulls to sleep and 
soothes the nerves. 

The moon rose later tonight. I knew it was coming 
for the lesser stars began to lose their brightness and 
then faded from sight. When at last it burst the east¬ 
ern cloud, the sky flooded by moonlight was almost 
starless. The mild, reflected light made mystical un¬ 
realities as the shadows played hide and seek with the 
moon, and I knew that the night was unlike the day, 
with a message unique and helpful. 

After hours of joyous expectation we have reached 
the turning point twixt darkness and light. The worlds 
have faded, all save the morning star with the pale 
moon in a deep blue sky. Even the little tuneful crea¬ 
tures are quiet now. There is silence, which in itself 
is musical, like an ^Eolian harp with cords tight-strung 
from which the wind brings forth rich melodies. 

One long trilling note from a bird and the morning 
song soon swells into a woodland chorus of many parts, 
with only here and there a discordant note that adds 
to the harmony of the anthem of the birds. A breeze 
moves among the tree tops and the pines and the euca¬ 
lyptus and the acacias are offering a whispered prayer 
and a song of praise. It is the hour of worship and I 
am one of the worshipers. 


A Night in the Open 


83 


Morning lingers behind “tomorrow’s hills,” but 
soon the sun will break the Day in glorious splendor 
and if our hearts are true we may be able to hear the 
angels sing as on that natal day in far Judea. 

I am glad that God gave to us the night, for out of 
the darkness cometh the beauty of the 
morn. Did not night divide the day 
we never would know the twilight 
glories of dawn and sunset. Be still 
sad heart, for without life’s cloud and 
darkness there may be no day of hope 
and glorious passing into the eternities. 

I am well paid for my waiting. 

The dawn is here. Rosy fingers are 
reaching upward toward the zenith. 

Clouds are touched with gorgeous hues 
of yellows, golds, carmines, magentas, 
shades of green and countless tints, wave on 
wave of changing color, all to be merged into white 
as the Lord of the Day rises above the distant hills. No 
wonder that primitive peoples worshipped the sun! To 
them it might seem that the High Priest was fanning 
to a mighty flame the altar fire to his god. 

This has been a night of rich experience. Eliza A. 
Otis writes of such a night: 

“In the still night I sat with self 
And looked to worlds afar, 

And said, ‘Now climb, O Mind! O Thought! 
And pass from star to star’.” 






84 


The Bush Aflame 


On, on,—still God is there. I may not even in 
thought pass that last boundary where fathomless void 
has neither sun nor star. 

The shining stars have their message as well as the 
earthly bush aflame. We learn to call them by name 
and watch for their rising as for the coming of a friend, 
but the planets are of our own family. They are sired 
by the same sun and are bound to us by eternal bonds 
stronger than earthly ties. As one of the planets hangs 
in the west as the evening star, or in the east as the 
morning star,—the harbinger of dawn, we feel like sa¬ 
luting them as brothers. Out beyond our own solar 
system we are lost in the immensity of space. To the 
nearest star there is no unit of common measure. We 
can only say it is so many light years away, a multiple 
of many trillions of miles. A race may live and die 
while the light from that farthest star is on its long 
journey earthward. Our sun is rushing through space, 
possibly circling a mightier sun, the center of a celes¬ 
tial system unmapped and undiscovered. If so, is God 
the same in that Universe center as in my sanctuary on 
the mountain side? Is the God I see revealed in the 
heavens, the same as the God I worship in the con¬ 
venticle? When I pray and say “Our 
Father,” am I reaching the heart of 
Him who holds the Universe in the 
hollow of his hand? Although my 
finite mind may not comprehend celes¬ 
tial space, distance, time,—yet with 
childlike faith I may apprehend Him. 
I cannot be an unbeliever even though 








A Night in the Open 


85 


my questions are unanswered. Some day I may know 
the God of the far-away. I am not troubled about that, 
for I do know the God of the near-at-hand. The Christ 
of God is the revealer. When He takes the trail to 
the mountain side and with His disciples about Him 
speaks of love and service and brother¬ 
hood and the supreme sacrifice, my 
heart goes out to Him, and I aspire to 
have the same spirit within my soul. 

Lying here in the open gazing into 
Eternity, I feel at one with the Di¬ 
vine. Peace fills my heart as I look 
upward to the stars. The finite is re¬ 
lated to the infinite and my soul can 
never lose its way as it journeys out 
through the gates of amethyst and 
pearl into trackless space, for God is 
there and here. I know no fear, for 
life is one. I am glad that God is also out there among 
the stars. Every night I am going to school in the out- 
of-doors and turn a new page in the great, open book of 
the heavens, for I really want to know the God of the 
Skies as well as I do the indwelling One within my 
own heart. 

This night’s experience has led me to look for the 
dawning of the new day which the prophets foresaw 
and Christ foretold. I hold high hopes for a better 
future, when kindness will replace brutality, and greed 
and passion will give way to loving service. 

























4 





W'hen I consider thy heavens, the 
work of thy fingers, the moon and 
the stars, which thou has ordained; 
What is Man, that thou art mind¬ 
ful of him? And the son of Man, 
that thou visitest him? 

Thou hast made him to have do¬ 
minion over the works of thy 
hands; thou hast put all things 
under his feet.” 


Psalm VIII. 






































































































' 






























































































































































































































































































































































































































































































. 







































































































Out in the Fields with God 


'nr 

A HE little cares that fretted me, 

I lost them yesterday, 

Among the fields above the sea, 

Among the winds at play; 

Among the lowing of the herds, 

The rustling of the trees, 

Among the singing of the birds, 

The humming of the bees . 

The foolish fears of what may pass, 

I cast them all away 
Among the clover-scented grass, 

Among the new-mown hay; 

Among the husking of the corn, 

Where drowsy poppies nod, 

Where ill thoughts die and good are born, 
Out in the fields with God. f} 






Giant Sycamores 






















































I 


Foreword 


GOD OF THE OPEN AIR 

T 

A HOU who hast made thy dwelling fair 

With flowers below, above with starry lights 
And set thine altars everywhere ,— 

On mountain heights, 

In woodlands dim with many a dream, 

In valleys bright with springs, 

And on the curving capes of every stream ;— 

In thy great out of doors, 

To thee I turn, to thee I make my prayer, 
God of the Open Air.” 


Henry Van Dyke. 







IV 


I N THE first chapter I told of my escape from the 
big city, the building of a home and the planting of 
an orchard on the mountain side. As every ranch in this 
land by the Western Sea must have a name, 
we christened ours “Mel-lu-es-be Hills.” 

The name is formed from the initial letters 
of the daughters of the family. 

I was but a city man when I came to live 
in the hills and knew not the full value of 
wild things. I thought that I must civilize 
the wilderness with ax and mattox, but 
much of beauty perished in the process. 

Fortunately I left one corner uncut where 
flowers bloomed unmolested, while I waited 
for the closing of my days of schooling in 
the hills. I now love them because I know 
them. I gather seeds from my neighbor’s 
hills and sow them in the unused places, and 
beauty and utility kiss each other and are 
one in the bonds of love. 

Today I write of beauty both of orchard and wild- 
wood and need not leave the little ranch to find the 
choicest illustrations of God’s artistry. From this ob¬ 
servation point on the moutain side I can look upward 
to the stars and follow the sun from its rising in splendor 
to its setting in a sea of glory. I can look outward to 
the mighty ocean, whose farther waters wash the coral 
isles; I can look onward to the Mother mountains, 










98 


The Bush Aflame 


snow-capped, cloud enwrapped, fog mantled, with an 
ever-changing face through storm and calm. Above 
me sail birds and butterflies with wings iridescent in 
sunset colors, while all about is the wondrous beauty 
of flowers and orchard blossoms. This is God’s own 
land, with a gift of beauty for every one who will open 
his eyes and ask for power to see with his soul. 

It is springtime as I begin to make my notes of the 
changing months. Winter rains have fallen, abundant 
for this land of little rain, giving promise of rich har¬ 
vests in fruit and grain. There is promise also of an¬ 
other harvest, one which is never valued by the 
appraiser nor taxed by the assessor. Yet once denied 
we would all be poorer, for while beauty does not nour¬ 
ish the body, for lack of it many a soul dies while still 
the body lives. The conditions of life and work for 
countless thousands of laboring men are such that the 
mind and spirit are starved for want of that which 
feeds the heart. I believe that when God sowed the 
fields with wild flowers He intended all his people 
should find satisfaction for their hunger for beauty in 
form and color. I am glad it is possible for an increas¬ 
ing number of men and women to watch through the 
seasons God’s revelation of Himself in the bush aflame. 

Yes, the rains have come, and bulbs and seeds are 
heeding the resurrection call. The bourgeoning cop¬ 
pice is beginning to burst into color and soon the hill¬ 
sides will reflect the morning’s dawn. All who journey 
thither, will not be able to see this miracle of spring. 
Just now strangers from the big city in the valley 
drove up in a high-powered machine to ask the price 





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Spring Time 











100 


The Bush Aflame 



of eggs. Another group of poorer folks 
in the lowest priced car, came to ask the 
way to a neighbor’s house. None of 
these city people saw the beauty of the 
flowers. Eyes had they but they saw not. 
Perhaps they lacked the capacity to enjoy 
this wonderful color scheme. Maybe 
they had lived so long in the caverns of 
the city that they were blinded by the 
sunlight. After all, beauty is only seen 
through the eyes of the soul. 

“There is no glory in star or blossom 
Till looked upon by a loving eye; 

There is no fragrance in April breezes 
Till breathed with joy as they wander by.” 

Bryant. 


When one is afield with the birds and the trees and 
the flowers, hatreds and envies are quickly forgotten 
and love becomes the dominant emotion, for, 

“There’s love on the highway, 

There’s love in the by-way, 

There’s love in the meadow, 

There’s love in the mart; 

And down every by-way 
Where I’ve taken my way, 

I’ve met love a-smiling, 

For love’s in my heart.” 


When you come to see me in my nook in the canyon 
and we sit together under the live oaks or beneath the 
grape arbor, please do not ask me questions about the- 




Orchard Blossoms 


101 


°l°gy> or sectarian differences. I have studied theology 
and belong to the church, but I prefer to talk about the 
things of the spirit, the indwelling Christ and God in 
His creation. 

Our canyon has been kind to us. From a ledge of 
rock showing every shade of red, we built our chimney, 
and the rounded boulders left by the glacier furnished 
the rocks for our fireplace. The eucalyptus trees grow¬ 
ing on the dry, rocky hilltop, supply the wood-pile with 
perfect firewood. Our water is piped from a neigh¬ 
bor’s spring in the hillside. The carefree birds give us 
sweet music and the air is tanged with the ocean and 
the mountain. Health and happiness are free gifts in 
the hills. 

Much of my life has been spent in social service 
with foreign-born neighbors from many lands. In 
creating a home garden it seemed quite natural to 
gather about us plants and trees,—immigrants from 
many climes. Growing on this little ranch I have al¬ 
monds from Spain, the passion vine, sapote and cheri- 
moya from Mexico, the avocado from Gautemala and 
Mexico, nectarine from New Zealand, feijoa from 
Brazil, bottle-brush, acacia, eucalyptus and hakia from 
Australia, flowering peach from 
Japan, pistache, hawthorn and 
persimmon from China. All of 
these have become as good Ameri¬ 
cans as my human friends in the 
big city. 

It gives joy to watch an orchard 
break into bloom, especially in this 



102 


The Bush Aflame 


favored spot where midwinter sees many trees in full 
color. The first of my orchard blossoms are the pale 
green flowers of the avocado. This is a beautiful tree 
with its bright green leaves and stately appearance. Its 
fruit is a food with values of meat and butter. Some 
day the avocado will be widely planted throughout the 
regions which are nearly free from frost. Next the 
citrus blossoms begin to show among the golden fruit, 
and the distilled odors of the orange fill the air with 
sweetness beyond description. The pale pink and white 
blossoms of the almond in their falling look like a snow¬ 
storm which has wandered beyond bounds,—far down 
the foot-hills. The nectarine is aglow with beauty and 
the Japanese peach is a flame of fire. Pears, snow- 
white, pink peach bloom, plums and prunes and apri¬ 
cots, each with different tints, form a moving tide of 
color as the season advances. The apple trees take on 
their beautiful mantle of white and pink, with a 
promise of big, red fruit at harvest time. Was it Emer¬ 
son who wrote of apple blossoms, 

“May—painting pictures mile on mile.” 

Old timers tell me that adversity is good for an 
apple tree. Left to itself it may run to wood; suckers 
may drink deeply of its life blood; too many apples will 
mean small apples. I am going to be a wise farmer and 
use the saw and the pruning shears in the hope that 
there will be a big crop in the fall. 

The fruit of the passion vine that trails my fence 
ought to be real soul food, for the flower is a constant 
reminder of the great sacrifice. Examine the next pas¬ 
sion blossom that you find and read its story. The 


Orchard Blossoms 

nails, the hammer, the thorns, the cross, 
with the halo of glory over all. He 
who has the time to spare and the extra 
land for use, may have an avocation 
that will add great interest to life by 
becoming an experimenter with the 
United States office of foreign seed and 
plant introduction, receiving gifts 
of rare plants and shrubs from far¬ 
away lands. Few other regions 
offer such exceptional opportuni¬ 
ties for experimentation, for every 
month of the year is a growing 
and fruiting month. 

Of all the fruits in my orchard I like best that im¬ 
migrant shrub, the feijoa. In olive shade, the leaves of 
this large bush are fresh and green throughout the year, 
an adornment to any ornamental garden. It is in full 
glory in the spring when the bush is ablaze with thou¬ 
sands of large, gorgeous flowers. As the bud unfolds, 
the green calyx shows red above, the delicate white 
petals turn far back and each takes the form of a sea 
shell, revealing just a little of the flesh-colored tint 
within. The pistil stands erect, as Captain of a com¬ 
pany of fifty soldiers clad in red and wearing yellow 
caps. If you have not seen a feijoa in bloom, seek an 
orchard in spring and see this bush aflame. In No¬ 
vember you will want to eat this green-colored, egg- 
shaped fruit, for in it you will detect the flavor of pine¬ 
apple, banana and raspberry, with the odor of straw¬ 
berry,—a real ambrosial food. 



104 


The Bush Aflame 


Nature has a wonderful power of recuperation. 
Even the scars of war may disappear. I saw sheep 
grazing in meadows on the battlefields of Waterloo. 
The grass grows green and the red poppies bloom in 
the shell-plowed fields of Flanders. A few of my 
orchard trees were touched with frost last winter. I 
thought that they were killed for they seemed burned 
as by fire. Today new leafbuds are bursting from bare 
branches, or the roots are sending out shoots which will 
grow to be sturdy trees. Those who know tell me that 
some day we will gather a wonderful harvest from 
these stricken ones. I would that humans might as 
quickly recover from the shock of adversity. 

I love my orchard both for its fruit and its bloom, 
but I must not be selfish. I must divide my love be¬ 
tween the wild garden of God and that which my labor 
has created. On that part of the hill left for the grow¬ 
ing of the trees and shrubs that bear no fruit, I planted 
many varieties of acacia, for I knew that every spring 
their blossoms would be like crowns of gold. I planted 
the eucalyptus, for they promised to add color to the 
picture. Every August they have fulfilled their prom¬ 
ise and clothed themselves in brilliant red. When the 
blossoms in other trees have given birth to 
fruit, these bring the color of spring 
into the waning summer and fur- 
nish a new storehouse of 
nectar for the honey bees. 
\r A wonderful tree is the euca¬ 
lyptus. Rooted in arid soil,— 
ever pushing upward with shin- 







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Orchard Blossoms 


107 


ing leaves which tremble and flash in the morning sun 
like diamond pendants. Cut it down and three trees 
grow from the stump, ready to be cut again every ten 
years during many generations. 

Our mountain ranches love the wild things in trees, 
shrubs and flowers, and from whatever clime they 
come they are at home. I have great pine trees which 
I brought from the edge of the northern forest. They 
were little tender seedlings then, so small that I hid a 
dozen of them in my pullman berth. Today they reach 
thirty feet toward the sky and the fourth generation of 
this family may sit under the full grown tree. In their 
spring growing time they are filled with tall green 
candles, ready for lighting at the Christmas-tide. 

The live oaks are glorious in the spring, with their 
tassels of flowers, pendant from crimson centers, sur¬ 
rounded by glossy green and thorn- 
edged leaves. These spreading ever¬ 
green trees are among our choicest pos¬ 
sessions. 

There is no native tree more beau¬ 
tiful in leaf and trunk and even in the 
leafless branches of winter time than 
the sycamore. My neighbor has left 
uncut a grove of these artistic trees 
growing where God planted the seed. 

Neighbor, I thank you. 

Near the corner of our house we left 
a wild shrub of the buckthorn family, 
with brilliant green leaves and flower 
clusters, as beautiful as a nursery plant. 





108 


The Bush Aflame 


California coffee they call it, because of the bean-like 
seed. The Mission Fathers learned of its medicinal 
value from the Indians, and christened it Cascara Sa- 
grada, or Sacred Bark. 

I must not forget our Christmas berry, for in this 
land it would not be Christmas without the 
native holly, brightening the flower stands 
of street vendors and decorating every 
church and home for the holiday week. 
These berries usually grow on bushes, but I 
have a holly tree with wide spreading 
branches. The rich contrast of bright scar¬ 
let berries against rich green leaves, forms 
a gay picture from Thanksgiving to Christ¬ 
mas day. 

There is no law preventing me from tak¬ 
ing as my own the beauty of my neighbors’ 
hills and the far stretches of the mountain 
slopes. It is yours also for the taking, so 
let us rejoice when April and May clothe 
the hillsides with gold and purple and crim¬ 
son. When lavender and white of the ceanothus are 
dominent colors, then we will say, “Let it be April all 
the year and always ceanothus time.” Multitudes visit 
Japan in cherry blossom time. We may never be able 
to go that far afield in search of the thousand beauties 
of springtime, yet we who live in the chaparral belt 
will find in our own hills a very Garden of the Gods. 
Prove it by climbing the mountains in May when the 
slopes are yellowed with the gold of the monkey flower, 
blued with lupine, snow-like with the flowers of the 



Orchard Blossoms 


109 


white sage and crimsoned with mountain phlox; the 
new green foliage glinting in the morning sun after a 
night of fog. The months as they pass give changing 
shades of color that man might not tire of monotony, 
even in beautiful flowers. 


What can be more lovely than a hedge row of roses 
in April? Back of the white and pink of 
these ramblers stretch acres of oranges, in 
full bloom, still bearing the golden fruit, 
while snow-capped mountains form a back¬ 
ground for the picture. 

I am building for myself a “wild gar¬ 
den,” bringing from the hills some of “the 
magic color, spun on looms of spring.” I 
love to work with these growing things. In 
tending them I am one of God’s husband¬ 
men. When I planted the bulbs, crudely shaped and 
unlovely, I had little faith that they would send forth 
beautiful flowers. But Easter called, and today the 
dead are risen in new life. 



This is June, and the Yuccas are sending up their 
long flower stalks. Soon these giants of the lily family, 
clad in pure white, will stand guard on our hillsides 
like Spanish sentinels of an olden day. 

The one flower most loved is the native'poppy. 
Have you seen the poppy fields stretching for miles 
along the foothills? “Cups of gold,” the Spanish called 
them. When I look upon a field of poppies, it seems 
to me God has brought to earth patches of golden 
clouds from the western sky at sunset. 







110 


The Bush Aflame 


“This golden Poppy is God’s gold; 

The gold that lifts, nor weighs us down, 

The gold that knows no miser’s hold, 

The gold that banks not in the town 
But careless, laughing, freely spills 
Its gold far up the happy hills.” 

Joaquin Miller. 

There are travelers on the open road who are selfish 
and greedy. They gather great bouquets of flowers, 
only to let them wither and be thrown aside. They 
forget that Nature requires seed for the winter’s sow¬ 
ing or else there will be no blooming in the spring. 
Already certain of the most beautiful flowers are be¬ 
coming rare and no longer give color to the hills and 
joy to the heart of the traveler. A lover of flowers that 
grow in the wild gives this advice: 

“Do not pick all of any bunch and never pick more 
than you can wisely make use of. If on an outing for 
a day pick no flowers when going unless you are to stop 
where you can place stems in water. Gather what flow¬ 
ers you will lovingly preserve in the home vases on the 
return trip; otherwise the plucking has been 
worse than useless; it has been at least a moral 
crime.” 

I would also permit the careful gathering 
of flowers for the shut-in ones, in the asylums 
and hospitals, that they may have a breath of 
the mountain. 

This summer I kept company with the 
wild flowers. We talked together and they 
told me their secrets. I learned to love espe- 



Orchard Blossoms 


111 


dally those that grow under adverse conditions. The 
mariposa lily, “butterfly” the Spanish called it, because 
its tints rival the markings on a butterfly’s wing,—lav¬ 
ender, yellow, pink, orchid, like a tulip, clasped in a 
calyx of green. Milton must have known this as one 
of his “Flowers fit for Paradise.” One here and an¬ 
other there, they give a cheerful nod to all who pass 
their way, as beautiful as a hot house flower, yet rooted 
in arid ground, drawing no moisture from beneath, 
reaching up eagerly for the life that comes from above. 

My Indian pinks, standing waist high on the hill¬ 
side where the spring flowers have faded, brighten the 
dull brown of summer with the deep crimson of the 
star-like blossoms. I love my Indian pinks because 
they, too, have overcome. Gorgeous and majestic the 
scarlet larkspur stands breast high, forming a wide 
streak of scarlet down the hillside. The scarlet buglers 
are erect like companies of soldiers, each with its shin¬ 
ing trumpet ready to play the call for church in our 
assembly hall in the out-of-doors. Another one of the 
“overcomers” is the scarlet honeysuckle. With bright 
shiny leaves and long drooping branches, flower- 
tipped, it adds color and beauty to the dry banks. 

I asked them how it was possible to wear such beau¬ 
tiful garments and smile so sweetly, when all about 
them the grass and herbs were dried and burned under 
the summer sun. This is what they said to me: “We are 
among those who are not stricken by adversity. When 
we found that we could not change our environment, we 
looked upward to the source of life, and God gave to us 
the power to be messengers of good cheer.” They said 


112 


The Bush Aflame 


to me, and I believed them, “This miracle of Nature 
which has given us abundant life in the midst of death, 
may be wrought with humans as well as with flowers.” 

It was Sunday in our sanctuary in the cove. My 
friends and I were having an hour of worship. The 
birds were the surpliced choir, and my flowers of the 
dry hillside were in the pulpit. I trust that their broad¬ 
casted message pleased everyone “listening in” on that 
beautiful morning, for it was a worthwhile sermon. I 
offered prayer, remembering those in pain and pov¬ 
erty and distress in the big city over yonder. This was 
the benediction,—“Now the God of hope fill you with 
all joy and peace in believing.” And the perfect day 
drew to a close as the sun sank in an ocean of glory. 



Consider the uues of the field, 

how they grow; they toil not, 
neither do they spin: and yet I say 
unto you, That even Solomon in 
all his glory was not arrayed like 
one of these. f> 

The Bible. 


i 






California 


It LIES between the desert and 
the sea, — God’s two sanitoriums 
for weary flesh and weary minds. 
The Sierra’s Eternal snows, the 
desert’s clean, hot breath, the 
ocean’s cool winds and the warmth 
of the sinuous current of Japan 
winding through it, all combine to 
make a climate hopelessly rivalled 
by even the most favored shores of 
the Mediterranean. It is a land of 
artists’ dreams, endless with flower- 
flaming uplands, swinging lomas 
and majestic mountains. It changes 
with every color of the day and is 
soft and sweet unspeakably, under 
low-hanging stars and great shin¬ 
ing moons.” 


John Steven McGroarty. 




California Landscape 
















































■ 














* 















































































































V 















































































Foreword 


THE MOCKING BIRD 

In MIRTH he mocks the other birds at noon, 
Catching the lilt of every easy tune; 

But when the day departs he sings of love ,— 
His own wild song beneath the listening moon.” 


Henry Van Dyke. 













y 

1 HAVE a corral full of hens, as every rancher should 
have. They furnish the family with food and oft- 
times lead me into moralizing on the philosophy of 
life as applied to my flock. I consider the raising of 
chickens as a real worth-while avocation, a leisure 
time adventure, a relaxation from the more strenuous 
work of pruning and spraying, cultivating and irrigat¬ 
ing the orchard. It is dealing with living things that 
have more of the good and bad of the human, than can 
be found in plants and trees. 

The breeding of a race of better hens is not a lowly 
occupation for it is akin to creation itself. He who de¬ 
velops a better flower or a better hen is a worker with 
God for the good of all. My friends of the corral mean 
more to me than the source of the daily egg sup¬ 
ply or the insurance of the Sunday dinner. They are 
my experiment station for the study of the science of 
eugenics. I wish that we might make as rapid progress 
in breeding of better babies as has been made in devel¬ 
oping finer strains of chickens. A better world would 
then be more than a dream. 



124 


The Bush Aflame 


I have a flock just outside the corral. They be¬ 
long to me, though I never gather their eggs nor serve 
them on toast. They are a flock of quail born on the 
ranch and still without fear of the hunter. I do not 
own a gun and no hunter poaches on our land, so these 
beautiful birds are free from harm. As I arise in the 
morning, I hear the mother quail calling her wander¬ 
ing brood from the hillsides, saying, “Come back here, 
Come, Come back here,” and soon they all gather for 
breakfast in my yard, running about and looking like 
the pigeons which the children feed in the city park 
I hope that these birds of the dainty dress and crested 
head will tarry here unto the third and fourth gen¬ 


eration. 

Not all of the animals on this little ranch are in the 
corral. Today a big grey squirrel with a bushy tail 
climbed our front steps and scratched for admittance. 
I wondered why. Perhaps he had been told that this 
was the squirrels’ reception day on the ranch and he 
came early that he might be first in line when the nuts 
were passed. There are gophers, too, and rabbits and 


lizzards. 
time. I 


I 

do 



once owned a goat, but that was in war 
not raise bees, but my wise neighbor on 
the mountain top has a fine apiary. He 
is a philosopher, and bee-keeping is one 
of the fine arts. He has a kindly spirit 
and gathers honey at harvest 
time. I am glad that my honey 
jars have no covers, but are open 
to all the bees from my neigh¬ 
bor’s hives. They drink deeply 






Friends in Feather Dress 

from the million blooms on my hill¬ 
sides and carry away both nectar and 
food. I have given freely and they 
have repaid by fertilizing the fruit 
blossoms, carrying the pollen from 
flower to flower. I am, therefore, debtor 
to my neighbor’s bees. 

But the real joy bringers are the 
birds. When one is awakened in the 
morning by the sweet music of the bird-chorus, it is as 
though the good Lord was giving us His blessing. No 
day can be dark and dreary that starts with a morning 
anthem of love and cheer. No song so bright 
as the spring-song, for that is mating time, when 
for the very joy of living, “Melodious birds 
sing madrigals.” 

He who closes his windows to the dawn and 
sleeps till the sun is high, misses much of spir¬ 
itual uplift. It is well to have the windows of 
the soul open to the incoming of the morning’s 
glory of harmony in music and color. I am glad that 
I live where I can welcome the dawn. 

This morning I heard the unfamiliar note of a bird 
which was evidently the chorus leader for the day. In 
a cheery tune of three notes he sang, “Good Morn-ing, 
Good Morn-ing,” and all of the out-of-door sleepers 
awakened for the morning anthem. 

Three centuries ago Cervantes wrote,—“A bird in 
the hand is worth two in the bush.” If he were here 
today he might belong to an Audubon Society and 
write, “A bird in the bush is worth two in the hand,” 










126 


The Bush Aflame 


for that is the humane spirit of this new time. Give 
freedom to the birds and hear them sing: 

“Everywhere that I can fly, 

There I own the earth and sky; 
Everywhere that I can sing, 

There I’m happy as a king.” 

In the springtime when the thoughts of birds turn 
to love and song, there is a great movement in the air, 
with new arrivals every day from winter quarters 
farther south. Birds are great travelers. In the fall 
before the coming cold they fly toward summer land 
and abundant food. In the spring they return for the 
nesting season. They may fly a thousand miles with 
only God-given instinct for their guide by night and 
by day. 

As I awakened one fine spring morning I knew that 
some of the feathered migrants had stopped for food 
and rest, for there was a greater volume and charm in 
the morning song. Listening carefully, I could detect 
the new-folk songs, with softer and sweeter notes. Did 
they learn them in some Spanish school in the land of 
“La Paloma?” Those of the migrants who stay with 
us, will they seek the same nests or build a home in the 
same tree. Many of my neigh¬ 
bors of the winter time are mak¬ 
ing ready for their flight to 
their nesting grounds in far off 
Alaska. We bid them farewell 
for a season, for we know that 
the natives up yonder, after the 





Friends in Feather Dress 


127 


long, dark night of winter, will be watching for the 
coming of these bright singers of the springtime, and 
the white men from the States will welcome the 
notes that remind them of home, sweet home. 

While the birds are music lovers, they are 
also protectors of our fields, destroying the in¬ 
sect pests, the rodents and the weeds. Fruitful 
fields and orchards would soon disappear if it 
were not for these feathered friends of the 
farmer. While they take their toll of every 
crop, yet that is small loss compared with the 
good which they do in destroying the enemies of the 
harvest. Let us protect the birds for they are our 
friends. 

My feathered friends do not seem to fear me. It is 
true with birds as with humans, “A man that hath 
friends must show himself'friendly.” I have neither 
gun nor snare and am willing to share with my little 
brothers all I have if they will but sing for me their 
sweet songs of joy. Children taught early in life to 
know the habits of birds, and to love them for their 
beauty and their song, will more surely become bird 
protectors. It will also aid in character 
building, for the love of living things a** 
has a refining and ennobling influence. 

As I sat today resting under an / 
acacia tree after hours of //'({H 

work on the hillside, I 
watched the birds seek¬ 
ing food or pleasure 








128 The Bush Aflame 

and was reminded of the saying of St. Francis, when 
the birds came about him on the mountain,—“I believe, 
dearest brethren, that our Lord is pleased that we 
should dwell on this solitary mount, inasmuch as our 
brothers and sisters, the birds, show such joy at our 
coming.” Several Phainopeplas were billing the red 
seed from the Ceonothus. A linnet with happy song 
was tumbling in the air to attract the attention of his 
little brown sweetheart. A mocking bird was singing 
one of its entrancing love songs. We miss the robin 
redbreast, but we have the mocker and are none the 
poorer. A humming bird was drinking honey from 
the blossoms of the larkspur. God bless this jeweled 
midget that flashes from flower to flower on ceaseless 
wing! It is neighborly, almost without fear of man or 
larger bird, trusting to its flpet wing to save itself from 
harm. The humming bird is a great traveler, outdis¬ 
tancing larger birds in their annual migrations. On 
the way to the big city the meadow lark sings from the 
fences, on and on, delightfully, with a whistle, sweet 
and flutelike. May its tribe increase. At the twilight 
hour the “poor will” is holding vespers in its leafy 
chapel, while the mourning dove adds a note of sorrow. 

I am learning to know and to love my feathered 
friends. Some day I will be able to distinguish the 
note of each bird in the great chorus of the dawn. 




// by Worry? 


Do NOT be anxious for your life here 
—what you can get to eat or drink. 
Is not life more than food? Look at 
the wild birds,—they neither sow, 
nor reap, nor gather into barns; and 
yet your heavenly Father feeds 
them! And are not you more pre¬ 
cious than they?” 

The Bible. 


i 






































































* 






















































































































* 









































































































r 

JlLVERY man is a magnet, highly and singularly 
sensitized. Some draw to them fields and 
woods and hills, and are drawn in return; and 
some draw swift streets and the riches which 
are known to cities. . . . The greatest tragedy 
in life, as I see it, is that thousands of men and 
women never have the opportunity to draw 
with freedom; but they exist in weariness and 
labour, and are drawn upon like inanimate 
objects by those who live in unhappy idleness. 
They do not farm: they are farmed.” 

David Grayson. 



THINK that we have already 
done too much toward banishing 
the pleasant things from life by 
thinking that there is some oppo¬ 
sition between living and provid¬ 
ing the means of living. We waste 
so much time and energy that we 
have little left over in which to 
enjoy ourselves. Power and ma¬ 
chinery, money and goods, are use¬ 
ful only as they set us free to live. 
They are but means to an end.” 

Henry Ford. 






9 






t 

























In Poetic Mood 























> 


Foreword 


T 

A HOLD it true that thots are things 
Endowed with bodies, breath and 
wings, 

And that we send them forth to fill 
The world with good results or ill . 

That which we call our secret 
thought, 

Speeds to earth’s remotest spot, 
And leaves its blessings or its woes 
Like tracks behind it as it goes.” 

Ella Wheeler Wilcox. 
























































































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. 





















































































































































































































































































































VI 


I SOLATION, that black spirit of the countryside, is 
about to be cast out forever. In the future one may 
live miles from neighbors, yet have the whole world 
at his door. This will be true because of automobiles, 
speeding on good roads; rural delivery, with its daily 
paper; electricity, with its light, heat and power; the 
local telephone, with its long distance connections; the 
phonograph, with its music and laughter; the airplane, 
with its helium gas and helicopter, popularizing travel 
by the air routes. The day of the tallow dip is past 
and gone, and slowly, interest in world news is displac¬ 
ing local gossip. 

It remained for this present year to bring into a 
million homes that arch enemy of loneliness, the radio¬ 
phone. The entire earth will 
soon be a great assembly hall, 
with everyone within listening 
distance of the speaker. It is not 
beyond the mark to call this “the 
miracle crowned epoch of the 
ages.” Science leads on today, 
from the limits of the known far 
into the realm of the unknown, 
and still the journey into the beyond is just begun. The 
recording of the human voice, to be accurately repro¬ 
duced for a future generation; the power to look 
through solids and discover the hidden; distant scenes 
pictured for our pleasure and profit, or riding the air 



142 


The Bush Aflame 


like birds of the sky, all of these and many more would 
have been counted miracles in a former age. None are 
more wonderful and thought-inspiring, than this latest 
invention,—the radiophone,—bringing as it does, voices 
from the air and with its various adaptations, explain¬ 
ing the unexplainable and leading on into the realms 
of the spirit. Mysterious, invisible forces are now the 
servants of man. In olden days mystery was mother of 
superstition. Forces not understood were deified and 
worshiped, or feared and propitiated. Today we are 
workers with God in the use of these same natural 
forces. In the presence of the unknown there is a 
challenge of the unattempted. Men say, this too may 
be controlled, and these forces, be they tides or sun 
power, may become fiery steeds set to work in harness 
for the good of man. “Greater things than these shall 
ye do.” 

The countryside owes much to the radiophone. 
Soon every isolated home in the valley or on the moun¬ 
tain, in the desert or on the prairie, will be equipped 
with a receiving set. Market reports, sermons, con¬ 
certs and university lectures will bring the best to the 
place of greatest need. The far away ones will be in 
constant touch with the great outside, for with the radio 
they can “listen in” on the whole world. Men in the 
far north fighting frozen death, will, by this means, 
live in a radio suburb to this big city, for distance died 
when the radio was discovered. 

Workers in distant lumber, mining and construc¬ 
tion camps, buried under banks of snow, need no longer 
feel as though they were entombed alive during the 


Voices of the Air 


143 


winter months, for the great moving world is with 
them during all their leisure hours. Travelers on the 
ocean may know the daily happenings on distant shores. 
Pioneers on the world’s frontiers may have education 
and worship, as well as music and daily news. 

Many great universities are already using the radio 
as a means of popularizing education and reaching with 
the human voice thousands who would never be able to 
attend a university or listen to a lecture. Soon high 
salaried, fully equipped teachers will broadcast daily 
lessons to assembled classes in many distant schools. 
The best in education will be none too good for the 
children of the future. 


This method of broadcasting the spoken word has 
brought to the church the one great medium that will 
eventually carry a spiritual message to the whole world. 
Then every home may be a house of worship and of 
praise. This larger service of the ministry may call 
for a new type of preacher, one who will be neither 
orator nor sectarian evangelist, but one who knows by 
experience the simple truths of the spiritual life. Such 
a pulpit will command the best, for the message sent 
into the air will reach tens of thousands of hearers. 

Many churches are now broadcasting their entire 
services and are reaching several hundred pastorless 
congregations in small communities. In 
time this will become a universal practice. 

This will call for a new department in 
schools of religion and a new method of 
reaching isolated communities. The po- 
sition of circuit rider again may be cre-** - *^ 6 ^ 





144 


The Bush Aflame 


ated. Such a worker would be a real human pastor to 
scattered groups and far away homes, helping as a per¬ 
sonal friend, administering the sacraments, extending 
the hand of fellowship that follows the spoken word 
broadcasted from a distant church. A radio sermon 
will need the touch of heart with heart in human com¬ 
panionship, or it will be only a voice crying in the 
wilderness. 

The radio is filling a position of highest service in 
unexpected places. When it entered the hospitals it 
brought new life and hope to the patients. The hours 
that formerly passed so slowly, now have winged feet. 
The radio offers a training school for the blind, giv¬ 
ing education and adding the touch of friendship that 
blesses the lives of those who live in darkness. 

Radio is entering the field of practicalities. It aids 
in the work of conserving our forests; brings aid to 
shipwrecked sailors; keeps ships off the rocks and 
guides them into harbors. Soon power will be sent by 
wireless, and radio impulses will pilot an airplane. 
Though tempted, I dare not prophecy, for my dreams 
of today may be surpassed by the deeds of tomorrow. 

The radiophone is here; voices are in the 

__ air and you and I may hear if 

we “tune in” and listen for the 
message. Still other calls and other 
voices may interfere and we may miss 
the word. May we apply this thought 
to our spiritual life. I listen to a voice 
T) from the air; I do not see the speaker, 
yet I receive the thought because I have 









Voices of the Air 


145 


followed the rules of the radio. If my soul is in tune 
with God, my prayer will surely reach His heart and 
His answer will return to me though there may be no 
talking face to face. Radio has brought God nearer, 
for through it we have entered the unseen world and 
the veil is rent in twain that hid the invisible and made 
the world of spirit unreal and unknown. 

A broadcasted message impressed upon the ether 
would in half an hour reach Jupiter, and in thousands 
of years the distant stars, and then on and on to the 
end of time. It may be that thought is capable of set¬ 
ting up electro-magnetic waves. If so, our thoughts 
would be immortal in their ceaseless travel into space. 
Some day we may be able, as God is able, to tune in on 
human thoughts. 

My faith is deeper now, for it is predicated no 
longer on material evidence. My days of the doubting 
Thomas have passed, when I said, “Except I put my 
fingers in the prints of the nails, I will not believe.” 
To me the invisible has at last become the real. I can 
see more clearly when my physical eyes are closed. In 
a spirit of prayer and with heart atune, I receive the 
message of God’s love and His promise of help, more 
truly than if in human form He stood 
before me speaking the dialect of my 
birth. 

Let us pray that other calls and 
other voices may never interfere when 
God is speaking to our souls. 






























The Happy Ones 


Blessed are the gentle, for they shall 

inherit the earth. 

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst 
for righteousness, for they shall be satis¬ 
fied. 

Blessed are the pure in heart, for they 
shall see God. 


From the Sermon on the Mount. 


































t 


E needs must love the highest when we 
see it. When WE SEE IT, there's the 
rub! Our eyes are holden until company - 
ing with the seers we catch their vision 
and develop a sense of what is fine and 
true." 


Chas. A. Dinsmore. 










HEN I saw new heavens and a 
new earth” 

“And I saw the Holy City,Jeru- 
salem, descending new out of 
Heaven from God” 

“God will dwell among them, 
and they will be His Peoples.” 

“The old order has passed 
away” 


Revelation of John. 



“Lake of Enchantment” 

(An oil painting exhibited at the Los Angeles Museum and purchased by 

Mrs . Henry E. Huntington) 














































Foreword 


THE FAR VIEW 

THOU that tellest good tidings to Zion 
get thee up into the high mountains.” 


VII 


A SEER of the long ago, prophesying concerning a 
coming spiritual age, cried out: 

“And the young men shall see visions.” 

They will then have the power to look beyond the 
limit of mortal sight and see the glorious future that 
is to be. They will be able to discover the real in the 
midst of the unreal. They will look at the starry 
heavens and think God’s thoughts. They 
will understand and use the powers of the 
spiritual world. They will discover that 
mountain visions richly repay as they clar¬ 
ify thought, lift the fog that dims the truth, 
and give the far view that reveals God’s 
larger plan. They will be the seers of the 
mountain top. 

In olden days there was no open vision. 

Jacob saw God’s messengers descending a 
celestial stairway and heard the voice of the 
Eternal. The prophets were spirit moved 
to reveal the hidden mysteries. The people 
expected no vision and heard not the voice 
of God speaking from a burning bush. Our 
God is nearer to us today than of old. We 
need no one to stand between us and the 
Most High. God is pressing in on us, seek¬ 
ing for contact, not with sensuous man but 
with the spiritual. “We cultivate our senses that 















160 


The Bush Aflame 


nature’s mystic meaning may come upon us, working 
the magic of its subtle beauty.” If we will take the 
next step and cultivate the spiritual powers, we will 
“practice the presence of God,” and have true fellow¬ 
ship with Him. We will be like Enoch who “walked 
with God,” and Moses who “endured,” as seeing Him 
who is invisible. 

Once the mountain top was a Holy of Holies, to be 
entered only by the chosen ones. Today it calls the 
many to come up higher and see as God sees. The seer 
has the power of soul sight. The eye and the ear 
trained and tuned, may see God manifest in His works 
and hear His voice in the music of His creatures. But 
only with the soul does one really hear and see God. 
This is not a rare gift to be used by the elect alone; it 
is for all who are ready to give Him audience. 

This contact with God means added power for 
service. Explorers, chemists and other scientists are 
seeking and finding new sources of power, for the world 
is demanding that the forces of nature be harnessed to 
do the work of man. The time may come when an 
equal amount of energy will be expended in searching 
for that superpower which for lack of a better name 
we call “spiritual.” “Ye shall receive power” is not 
an empty promise, for it has been, in a small way, 
tested and found true. 

How may we make contacts with the Invisible? 
Shall we journey to some holy shrine built by the hand 
of man? Will some saintly one speak in our behalf? 
Is there a formula for finding God? I think not. Ex¬ 
perience shows that there are many ways that lead from 


Mountain Visions for Valley Service 161 

the soul of man, to the heart of God. I have found the 
source of power in the near-at-hand, in the silent places, 
in the cathedral, on the mountain and in the forest. I 
have found Him in the common things that become 
“Altar stairs, that slope through darkness up to God.” 
Many ways there are. Have you taken your way that 
leads to life and love? If so, then religion, the binding 
of man to God, has become a reality to you, ennobling 
the life and preparing for service. 













162 


The Bush Aflame 


I have lived in the thick of the city and there have 
found beating against prison bars, mankind without 
God. If there had not been continually with me the 
vision of a world redeemed, I must have become a pes¬ 
simist and called out in despair, “Is there no place 
where man and God may meet? Is there no divine 
alchemy that will transmute the gold of earth into the 
treasures of heaven? Will uncongenial toil always en¬ 
slave the mind and deaden the soul?” But the vision 
was with me and my faith stood the test. 

Three of the disciples went with the Master to the 
Mount of Transfiguration. The others remaining in 
the valley, failed in their effort to cast out evil spirits. 
They had missed the vision and were spiritually un¬ 
prepared for life’s great service to humanity. The 
mountain must always aid the valley. With the vision 
will go the power to do great tasks. Every one who 
tries to help his brother needs the journey to the heights. 

Man is a strange being, body and soul, material and 
spiritual,—rarely in perfect harmony. As we look 
within our own man-soul, we discover a continuous 
struggle, twixt good and evil. It ought not so to be, for 
an indwelling spirit makes evil powerless. We forget 
that the divine side of man has windows opening to¬ 
ward the heavens. We forget that this tabernacle of 
flesh was intended as an habitation of God. We locked 
the doors against the incoming Christ and lived as they 
lived in the dawn of the day of God’s revelation. But 
why live on a low material plane? The higher spir¬ 
itual offers a purposeful life, worth while, joyous and 
satisfying. When inspired by a great spiritual ideal 
there is unlimited power set to serve. 


Mountain Visions for Valley Service 163 

The Mount of Transfiguration is not always a 
physical mountain top. There are times within the 
soul itself, when age old truth is seen in a new and 
glorious light. God’s truth, Eternal Truth, becomes 
ours for use in casting out evil and calling in the good. 

As we come down the trail from our heights of 
vision we will find, as did the disciples of Christ, evil 
entrenched, suffering, sorrow, sin and wretchedness on 
every hand. We will find the master still shackling the 
slave, and the hungry dying in a world of plenty. 

After the vision I am not surprised that you turn 
reformer. That you endeavor to expand the vision 
into the larger love of fellow humans, 
and that you are seized by a passion for 
helpfulness. For the orphan and the 
widow must be aided by charity and 
by law. The power of age-long injus¬ 
tice must be broken, and the call for 
aid by the poor and needy must be an¬ 
swered by something more than the 
gift of bread for a day. You may feel 
the urge to teach, to preach, or to heal. 

You may find your place as a leader of 
men in this day of social stress, seeking 
to reorganize industry and bring it into 
accord with the principles of Jesus. 

You may choose to live in a difficult 
neighborhood and join with others in 
the effort to bring the community to a 
consciousness of itself. You may enter politics or social 
service as a profession, but always remember that ideas 




























164 


The Bush Aflame 


and ideals are the strongest forces in any constructive 
reform, and therein will lie your power. 

Jesus healed a few out of the many who were sick. 
He drove a group of money changers out of the temple. 
He brought cheer to a few sorrowful hearts. If that 
had been all, we would rejoice in that splendid life of 
loving service. Jesus was not a social reformer or an 
ideal philanthropist. He was more. He was a teacher 
of teachers; a thinker of great thoughts, universal in 
their application to society and yet a transforming 
power in individual life. He was the revealer of the 
spiritual and of the hidden forces that move the world. 
He drew a line between Truth and Error and showed 
man the way to God. I seem to hear Jesus saying, 
“And so shall ye be my disciples.” May we heed the 
exhortation of the Apostle, “Let this Spirit be in you 
which was also in Christ Jesus.” If we are followers 
of Him we will be thinkers of high thoughts, noble 
thoughts, clear thoughts, with every thought shot 
through with the Jesus ideal, that “Man, not things, 
is the goal of social living”; that right, in the end, is 
stronger than might. 

During the terrible years just passed, we tried to 
think that force was justified; that fellowship in suffer¬ 
ing would result in the cleansing of a People; that a 
baptism in blood would be a symbol of the new birth 
of a nation; that somehow the Eternal God would 
transform hellish cruelty and insensate hate, into the 
higher values of incarnate love and active service for 
others. But war did not so eventuate. We have found 
that the bitter hatreds of these war years has fathered 


Mountain Visions for Valley Service 165 

an evil brood. We now know that a nation or an in¬ 
dividual cannot live in hell and still breathe the pure 
air of heaven. If we are to come back, even to the best 
of pre-war days, thought must be reversed. Love must 
take the place of hate, destruction must give way to co¬ 
operation for the common good. The spirit of revenge 
must yield to that of helpful service. Give the people 
the will to change and God will bless every altruistic 
thought and effort. The vision must come before the 
conversion. A better world visualized, will create a 
zeal for justice and human rights. Knowledge of con¬ 
ditions in industry, in politics, and in social relations 
must precede action, or there will be movement with¬ 
out progress. The struggle for the life of 
others must be made the new law of civiliza¬ 
tion. “The old order changeth,” and we 
can even now mark the change. The serv¬ 
ice motive is slowly, too slowly replacing 
the acquisitive instinct. The high purpose 
of gaining for all men a larger share in in¬ 
dustry and in government is held by an 
increasing number of men of talent, educa¬ 
tion and wealth. 

Accepting as a fact that thoughts are 
forces with dynamic energy, then man is 
given added power to change the wrong. 

“Think on these things,” urged the Apostle 
Paul in his letter to Christians in Asia; 
that are true, honest, pure, lovely and of good report. 
This is a formula to be used by all in helping to create 
a better world. 



the things 








166 


The Bush Aflame 


I am not deluded by the hope of a coming Utopia 
in this generation. I may not live to see the kingdom 
of God realized, but I continue to pray, “Thy King¬ 
dom come,” in the faith that it is coming and that by 
prayer and service I may help it on its way. Some¬ 
times the “hot hope surges up,” that the slow climb of 
the world to the heights of God may be ending. In 


the line of discovery and in¬ 
vention the centuries are 
moving faster. The spir¬ 
itual must also feel this on¬ 
rush of time. The drawing 
from above and the urge 
within the soul will surely 



speed nations and individuals alike, upward and on¬ 
ward toward the perfect goal, when men will say, 
“The Kingdom of God is here.” 

It is night,—in the most quiet hour before the 
dawning of a new day. I look upward into the star- 
filled sky, mysterious with its unsolved problems, and 
I hear a voice saying, “I will draw all men unto me.” 
With childlike faith, I reply: “Lord, I believe.” 
Amid warring and clashing philosophies of life I find 
none other than His simple teaching that satisfies, that 
promises overflowing, abundant life of God for the 
human soul. As the Master could not tarry in the 
high places but sought the lowliest, I must not taber¬ 
nacle for too long a season on my heights of glory. 
The big city with its problems of construction, admin¬ 
istration and reform lies before me in the valley. It 
does not need the wisdom of great men as much as it 


Mountain Visions for Valley Service 167 

does the thinking, the living, the loving and serving of 
simple folks like us who have caught the vision of a 
God-filled world and of a new city, wherein dwelleth 
righteousness, brotherly kindness and love. I will be 
one of the builders of that city. 


The End 





























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